It carries the autumn leaves without asking their names,
the words we held back, the letters left on the sill,
the dust of roads we swore we knew by heart,
and that far-off voice still caught in the shutters.
It carries the promises too light to keep,
the laughter fading at the edge of an empty street,
the scent of a garden we left before its time,
and that half-finished gesture hung between two seasons.
But what it carries, it scatters somewhere else —
a seed of memory that may bloom
in another hand, under another sky,
in the hollow of a mind that has never known us.
Nothing truly vanishes.
The wind does not erase: it rearranges.
And sometimes, in the stillness of an evening,
what we thought was lost returns
without sound,
without cause —
like a leaf settling
onto a still-blank page.
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